halted in place, huge cliffs, and others stumbled out into foothills, but
the main range swerved to the east beside the valley, eastward out of his
vision, though he knew that they went on to the town of Alder.

Alder was Vic Gregg's Athens and Rome in one, its schoolhouse his
Acropolis, and Captain Lorrimer's saloon his Forum. Other people talked of
larger cities, but Alder satisfied the imagination of Vic; besides, Grey
Molly was even now in the blacksmith's pasture, and Betty Neal was teaching
in the school. Following the march of the mountains and the drift of the
clouds, he turned towards Alder. The piled water shook the dam, topped it,
burst it into fragments, and rushed into freedom; he must go to Alder, have
a drink, shake hands with a friend, kiss Betty Neal, and come back again.
Two days going, two days coming, three days for the frolic; a week would
cover it all. And two hours later Vic Gregg had cached his heavier equipment,
packed his necessaries on the burro, and was on the way.

By noon he had dropped below the snowline and into the foothills, and with
every step his heart grew lighter. Behind him the mountains slid up into
the heart of the sky with cold, white winter upon them, but here below it
was spring indubitably. There was hardly enough fresh grass to temper the
winter brown into shining bronze, but a busy, awakening insect life
thronged through the roots. Surer sign than this, the flowers were coming.
A slope of buttercups flashed suddenly when the wind struck it and wild
morning glory spotted a stretch of daisies with purple and dainty lavender.
To be sure, the blossoms never grew thickly enough to make strong dashes of
color, but they tinted and stained the hillsides. He began to cross noisy
little watercourses, empty most of the year, but now the melting snow fed
them. From eddies and quiet pools the bright watercress streamed out into
the currents, and now and then in moist ground under a sheltering bank he
found rich patches of violets.